What Lot's Wife Saw (25 page)

Fabrizio, when he’d finally found his voice, managed to stammer that he’d obtained the verbal approval from the late Governor to wear a handkerchief with his former monogram and he’d simply not yet written up the relevant paperwork. We all gave him sidelong glances and it dawned on him that he’d said something stupid. He hurriedly tried to cover up his slip by saying that Markella had just sewn it on today and he was just about to ask the permission of the New Governor. Of course, he should have obtained permission before allowing his housekeeper to sew it on so, mid-stride, he changed tack and wailed that he didn’t know how the incriminating handkerchief had found itself in his pocket but probably one of us had planted it there in the antechamber to frame him.

“Inelegant,” commented the youth, and handed it back to him.

I couldn’t tell whether he was referring to the handkerchief or the convoluted speech of the Doctor, but in any case, Fabrizio looked as if he’d just received a sharp slap. He hid his face in his hands in repentance and tearfully admitted that he’d been carrying the illegal kerchief for years in his pocket, but because it had never been drawn out before he’d considered that no one would ever know. What he intended to achieve with it in his pocket, he couldn’t imagine, as if in this fashion, with a little, illegal monogram, he resisted the Consortium. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now he was fully conscious of his dreadful crime and he humbly begged forgiveness.

The Governor asked him to take his elbows off the table because they were obscuring Siccouane’s view of the gold candlestick and there was no reason to further torture the Secretary. Fabrizio had no idea what the Governor meant, but he drew his elbows in. I didn’t understand either but I saw Siccouane turn beetroot red and his jaw start to tremble. His forehead slowly sank into his outstretched fingers and he confessed in a whisper that he’d stolen three gold candlesticks from the Palace and had hidden them under the floorboards of his house. He’d managed to throw the blame on the butler, Rodriguez, who’d been fired for the theft, to get his revenge because he’d been slighted by him during the receptions when Bera had always made the Secretary eat with the staff. There was also an element of revenge on Bera himself for the humiliation of these arrangements. Bera had liked Rodriguez and had been sorry to have had to let him go. He really wished he knew why he’d done it and also wished he could understand why he’d perpetrated most of his ridiculous abuses of his position, like burying a number of colonists’ applications, or delaying the processing of others, or deliberately shuffling their order, but was overcome by a constant incendiary hatred which he must occasionally release to lower its intensity. Sometimes he was afraid that at night his hatred would consume him from within, and in the morning they’d only find ash on his sheets.

Regina, affected by the sobbing Fabrizio and the devastated Siccouane, collapsed. The serving dish slipped from her hands and she went down at the youth’s feet. She rested her head on his boots and then she started to kiss them and wipe them of her tears with her cheeks. Between sobs she muttered, “… Avenging Angel … Avenging Angel … we knew you’d come … we were waiting … we longed for your coming, even though your thunderbolt might kill us.”

The pirate rapped his fingers on the table impatiently and in his quiet, benevolent voice said to Bianca, “Please start your food, you’re very thin. It’s obvious that they weren’t looking after you properly. I’ll rectify all my predecessor’s omissions but, unfortunately, I cannot do so in one day.”

He flicked Regina off his boot, as if he was ridding himself of a cat rubbing itself on his calf. She tried to get up but failed. Montenegro, upset, tried to help her. Like the rest of us, he was terrified but, from his expression, it was Regina that was frightening him the most at that moment. He was desperately trying to support her as if he’d also collapse if she went down again.

Captain Drake couldn’t bear the impending threat any longer, feeling that it would be his turn next. He unpinned his Purple Star from his lapel and laid it carefully on the table. He admitted he was illegally carrying a loaded gun with real bullets and not only now but always, because he couldn’t control his fear and he was nothing but a coward that didn’t deserve to be the Captain of the Guards and to wear a uniform.

The pirate pushed Drake’s Star towards him with his knife. “Captain, I didn’t ask you to surrender your decorations, only to wear them. Your pent-up need to pour out your confessions prevents you from hearing properly. I’m not your spiritual guide but your Governor, and I’m not here to help you clear your consciences but to try and get effective use out of you. In two weeks a new administration will be established to run the Colony. The succession procedures have been set in motion even if you can’t perceive them or understand them, and these will bear fruit on the day of the anniversary. But there are a number of issues that must be settled so as to regain some of the time wasted by my predecessor and, for that purpose, I’ll be in need of your best services.” He folded his napkin. “It’s obvious that we’re not going to manage to have a meal today, but at least we should talk. Doctor Fabrizio, please serve the wine.”

Fabrizio just stared back at him like an idiot but suddenly snapped out of his trance, jumped up and started to energetically fill all our glasses. He sat down quickly, ready to participate with eyes glowing, fired by newborn hope. The pirate had just unexpectedly and deftly lifted the millstone that had been crushing our spirits for the past hours and had declared that he’d accept us as we were. We thought that he’d invited us here to sack us, whereas he’d merely asked us to continue to offer our services. A few minutes ago we were on the edge of a treacherous cliff, knowing that we’d lost our footing, and now we were standing firmly on our feet. We tightened our ties, settled back in our chairs; Drake quickly pinned his medal back on his lapel and Montenegro swept up the Bible from the table with a perfunctory apology. Even Regina seemed to recover when the Governor asked her to pull up a chair and join us. We hung from his lips.

The young Governor gave us an analysis of the problems of the storage of the excess quantities of salt that the saltworks had been producing and spent the rest of the time talking about the well-known problem of the inadequate capacity of the port installations as it had a limit to the number of vessels it could safely berth. We anxiously waited for him to touch on a subject that would be new to us or to examine an old problem with revolutionary insight or in some way to inspire us, overawe us or even frighten us but he only reiterated familiar figures, described stale problems and discussed worn-out solutions. It was like listening to old Bera. The lunch was reminiscent of countless others that I’d experienced, sitting in this chair, stifling my yawns. Paradoxically, I felt a strange disappointment, as if I’d been promised a beating but it’d never come about.

All at once there was a knock at the entrance of the Palace and, because I thought that it must be Ali with my Star, I offered to go and open to get my decoration. I needed to walk, to stretch. I was nearly falling asleep in there.

It was indeed Ali behind the door. I took the Star, pinned it on and sent him away. As I was shutting the door I saw a black object seem to sprout from the negro’s head and to grow larger. I immediately realised that it had nothing to do with Ali’s head but with the port at the far end of the avenue. It wasn’t before the manservant had departed that I could properly make out the mysterious object. When my mind finally encompassed the shape and dimensions of what I was seeing I still couldn’t believe my eyes.

Instead of returning to the dining room I ran up a service stairway, leaping up five steps at every stride, to get to the Palace roof terrace. From there you get a panoramic view of the harbour and there was a Black Ship, jet black, with black hull and black sails that was crossing the basin diagonally, heading towards the southern quarters. It looked like an ancient frigate, quite like a pirate ship of the old-time movies, apart from the fact that it flew no skull and crossbones. It seemed to have no crew whatsoever, just hull, masts, and sails. I could see that its name was painted in faded letters on its bow but I couldn’t make it out from such a distance. The weirdest thing of all was that its keel was mostly submerged as if it was sailing in a proper sea. In the territorial waters of the Colony the density of the brine doesn’t allow that to happen, in fact vessels slide over the sea almost like sleighs on ice. Could I be dreaming?

I returned shakily to the dining room and sank into my seat. Had I seen it or imagined it? I was reminded of Lieutenant Richmond’s story of the pirate who’d succeeded in diving into the waters without bouncing off the surface. Could this Black Ship, which defied the resistance of the dense sea, have anything to do with the man sitting at the head of the table? I studied the young Governor once more, the golden skin, the raven hair, the muscled arms rippling under his red shirt and the golden ring dangling from his ear. I didn’t know what to think.

I subtly lowered my hand and searched for Montenegro’s knee under the table. I sent him a coded message to find some excuse and go up to the terrace. I needed someone else to see the ship to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. Montenegro, a past master at sub-table communication, remained impassive and continued to drink his wine. I suddenly felt his hand tap out a reply. He was asking me to repeat my message because he’d not understood. Maybe my trembling hand had confused the meaning. I tapped it out again carefully.
Go up to the roof terrace. Incredible sight.

Montenegro awkwardly flung an elbow in my direction, which knocked over the wine bottle. It plunged off and shattered, sending a glass shard in the Priest’s eye. He shot up from his chair, yelling and covering his injured eye with his hand. He rushed from the room to find some iodine.

He took ages to return. I was counting the seconds while guiltily looking at the youth. He seemed absorbed in his discussion with Drake about desert border patrols. I was hoping that he wouldn’t connect my extended absence with the time Montenegro was taking in the Palace pharmacy.

Finally, the Priest returned with a wad of cotton soaked in iodine held to his eye and sat in silence. I avoided looking at him and eagerly anticipated his code message on my knee. Suddenly, I felt only one tap, which in knee parlance was equivalent to a yes. Whenever the Priest becomes laconic, it’s because something has frightened him. As he withdrew his right hand, I saw him put his left under the tablecloth, evidently to pass the news to Fabrizio.

Fabrizio, who was on his fourth loaf of bread to make up for the lack of real food on the table, suddenly stopped chewing. His lips froze into a slight smile and he turned an inquisitive look towards the young Governor. His jaws resumed working, albeit at a more contemplative pace as if it would help his concentration. He was evidently processing the message he’d received on his knee. He knitted his eyebrows, wiped his lips and offered to go down to fetch another bottle of wine since the Priest had seen fit to smash the previous one.

It took him all of twenty minutes to reappear, by which time cold sweat was breaking out all over my head. I was sure that the young Governor would realise that something was amiss and in his inimitable fashion put us firmly in our place. Thankfully, however, he seemed excessively busy correcting something Drake had said and chastising Bianca for only picking at her food. He suggested that she shouldn’t drink since it’d be bad for her in her emaciated state and to concentrate on eating what was on her plate. Bianca was the only one with a full plate and the only one that didn’t want to eat. At one point, he got up and personally fed her forkful by forkful. She responded with great reluctance, as if she lacked the energy to chew. She gave the impression that Bianca’s mind had already left the table to seek the refuge of her room and the goings-on in the dining room were no longer part of her reality. With her fingers, she traced meandroses on the tablecloth, like the ones of her favourite puzzles, and she stared at the imaginary white squares.

Perhaps the three consecutive forays had escaped the notice of the Governor but not of the other three, accustomed as they were to such boredom-relieving exercises in past meetings. Regina, who’d patented the smashed bottle routine to disappear for a quickie with Montenegro, was absolutely certain that something was going on. She volunteered to go to the kitchens and fetch Bianca’s sweet so that her wholesome meal could be rounded off. She returned after a quarter of an hour, without the sweet, in an obvious state of agitation. Then it was Siccouane’s turn, who asked permission to go and get a pill out of his bag in the corridor, and when he returned, Captain Drake requested leave to use the bathroom. I shut my eyes with despair – the Governor was bound to smell a rat at any moment. It was impossible that he wouldn’t notice and I was waiting for a thunderbolt to be unleashed.

The door had been opening and shutting with regularity. Everyone who’d left returned ashen and taciturn. There were those that just had to leave a second time to see the unbelievable again, hoping, probably, that the mirage would have dissipated and the port would only contain the Consortium fleet with no ghosts of pirate ships. To their dismay, all they managed was to watch the Black Ship sail its slow, stately course. The information was instantly shared under the table and thus we all became conversant with the details of its progress. Starting from where I’d seen it, from the western side of the bay it had proceeded on an absolutely diagonal course, without deviating at all and had reached the southern quarters where, we all knew, there were no docks to berth in, since there the sand began where the sea ended.

We were finding it difficult to keep abreast of the discussion about the problematic capacity of the port which seemed so important to the young Governor. We repeated ourselves, asked the same questions and failed to hear the answers. Meanwhile the under-table telegraph was bursting into flames from overuse. Messages that did the rounds had degenerated into cryptic headlines: “Illusion”, “Must check with harbourmaster”, “Mass delusion”, “Natural phenomenon”, “Avenging Angel”. We never even realised when the meeting ended. The Governor had to repeat that we could go three times before it impinged on us.